


you know i dreamed about you

by robin_hoods



Series: the ghost in the back of your head [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, M/M, Pre-IT Chapter Two (2019), Sugar Daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23841739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robin_hoods/pseuds/robin_hoods
Summary: DO YOU KNOW HOW DANGEROUS THIS IS? DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY PEOPLE GET MURDERED EVERY YEAR BECAUSE OF ADS LIKE THIS?Or, Richie Tozier attempts to find a sugar daddy on Craigslist.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: the ghost in the back of your head [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717984
Comments: 26
Kudos: 233





	you know i dreamed about you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liesmyth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liesmyth/gifts).



> Thank you to [falsettodrop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsettodrop) for the encouragement. I don't know if I would've finished this without your cheerleading. <3

Okay, to be fair, maybe it hadn’t been a great idea to post _wanted: sugar daddy_ on Craigslist personals, but Richie is so fucking sick of eating instant noodles every day, he’d suck a dick or two if it meant he could eat some actual food for dinner for once. (Not counting the previously mentioned dick, of course.)

Richie just hadn’t expected to get a lecture from a virtual stranger about the dangers of meeting people online.

He’d opened the new e-mail, excited, because the subject had read “Your Craigslist Ad”. It’s the first and only e-mail in his brand spanking new Hotmail account (aside from the congratulatory e-mail everybody gets when they create a new e-mail address, we hope you have a great time using our services!).

He’d clicked on it, anticipation coiling in his gut – and then leaned back in his seat, taken aback. Because whoever it is, they don’t even bother saying hi, they just launch directly into,

> DO YOU KNOW HOW DANGEROUS THIS IS? DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY PEOPLE GET MURDERED EVERY YEAR BECAUSE OF ADS LIKE THIS?

That’s it. That’s the e-mail.

Apparently, they even went through the trouble of creating a whole new account, too, unless [icantbelievethis123@hotmail.com](mailto:icantbelievethis123@hotmail.com) does this as a hobby. They’re not very good at making up usernames, either. (Not that Richie has much to brag about, considering his is [sugarbaby6969@hotmail.com](mailto:sugarbaby6969@hotmail.com). Richie’s never claimed to be mature, and it gets the point across; that’s the most important part, right?)

But Richie wouldn’t be Richie if he hadn’t sent back,

> lol i know
> 
> are you interested? XD

He tops it off with _xoxo_ because why the hell not.

It’s a shame he has to wait for a response (he doesn’t expect whoever it is to have MSN Messenger, and besides, Richie is on a library computer – they’d probably kill him and hide his body among the dusty shelves nobody ever comes near if he dared to install anything on their PCs).

When he comes back two days later after a long night bartending, he hopes he’s caught more flies than Mr. Stranger Danger, but unless he counts the three e-mails advertising penis enlargements as potential sugar daddies, he’s out of luck.

Although, there is an “RE: Your Craigslist Ad” e-mail sitting in his inbox, dating from yesterday.

> No, I’m not interested in murdering you.
> 
> What the hell does XD mean?

Richie presses his fist against his mouth to stop himself from laughing. How old is this guy, fifty? Richie can imagine him (he thinks it’s a guy, anyhow) typing with both his index fingers, painstakingly pressing the Shift key to make the XD face. Not that he knows it’s a face. He’s _too old_ to know it’s a face, apparently.

Richie can’t stop himself from responding, though.

> rofl i meant if u wanted to be my sugar daddy ;)
> 
> XD is a face! ur supposed to look at it sideways

He gets distracted looking at job listings for about thirty minutes (it’s depressing, being a 29-year-old picking up shifts in bars while he tries to break into the comedy scene. Maybe he should’ve considered a career as stripper, rather than stand-up comedian). When he checks his inbox right before he leaves, there’s a response.

> XD is not a fucking face.

Before Richie knows it, two weeks have gone by – he restocked on his favourite brand of noodles (namely, the ones that don’t taste like soap) on his way to the library, dropped and shattered two more glasses at work, and has written (and scrapped) a bunch of new jokes for a routine he wants to try out as soon as possible. Hopefully this year, even. He’s been signing up for open mic nights left and right, but none of it is really sticking. He gets laughs, but he’s realized quickly he wants more than just laughs, he wants _engagement_. He wants to be the only guy in the room. It’s probably self-centered as fuck, but Richie’s never not been self-absorbed, so he might as well go all in. Isn’t that what all famous people do?

When he checks his e-mail, there are a few e-new ones in his inbox, the top one’s subject reading “RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Your Craigslist Ad”.

In absolutely surprising news, [icantbelievethis123@hotmail.com](mailto:icantbelievethis123@hotmail.com) actually wants to meet him.

“In public,” his e-mail reiterated.

“sure thing daddy ;),” Richie responded.

“Jesus Christ,” the guy says in his latest e-mail. He lays out where they’re meeting – a coffeeshop that is not a Starbucks, to the great relief of Richie’s wallet. He hates spending money on overpriced coffee that tastes like shit. At least if he brews it at home, he can pretend he saved some money – even if it still tastes like shit.

If Richie’s honest with himself (which he rarely is), his expectations aren’t all that high. In fact, he has zero. He hadn’t expected all that much from his ad, aside from a few creeps asking for shirtless pics or a striptease with the world’s shittiest webcam. (Which Richie would have insisted they buy for him, because Richie is not the kind of guy to have spare money lying around for stuff like a laptop, let alone one with a camera. He doesn’t think the librarians would appreciate it if he started taking his shirt off, either.)

Mr. Stranger Danger hasn’t asked him for anything of the sort, though, although he _has_ so far refused to give his name. He’d scolded Richie again when he’d dropped his own name in their fourth or fifth e-mail exchange, and he’d replied “do u know how many guys are named richie. so many dude.”

And now, on the day the two of them were supposed to meet, Richie is running late, because the bus ran late. It didn’t even finish the route, leaving him to trawl through thirty degree weather. He’s sweating in his coat by the time he swings the door open to the coffee shop, and he tugs off his hat as a blast of warm air hits him. He throws a cursory glance through the café. There’s a woman with a pram sitting by the window, typing on a flip phone. Three teenage girls sitting at the table closest to him, giggling as soon as they notice him look. In the back, there’s a business man reading a paper, Blackberry phone next to his cup.

Aw, fuck. Did he get stood up? He pushes up his sleeve, and checks his watch. He’s twenty minutes late, maybe the guy already left. Just his luck. He’d counted on maybe getting a free coffee out of him, because now he’s wasted a bunch of money on bus fare that he could’ve used on (surprise!) noodles.

The barista behind the counter gives him a bored look when he looks in her direction, and she raises her eyebrows, silently asking him whether he wants to order anything. Well, he’s here. Might as well.

He orders the cheapest, smallest coffee they have, and turns back around to the seats. The teenage girls have stopped giggling, but the business man is looking at him. Like, pretty intensely. He puts his paper down – and then he motions him closer. Richie looks behind him, but there’s no one else there, and when Richie faces him again the man has raised his eyebrows.

Richie cautiously shuffles over, careful not to walk into any chairs, which is nearly impossible with the way they’ve been set up. He sets his coffee on the next table over, and then drops the hat that he’d tugged under his elbow on the floor. “Ow, fuck,” he says when he hits his head against the corner of the table after he gets back up. He rubs his head, and sags into a seat. Only then does he finally dare to glance at the business man again, who by now must’ve realized he’s mistaken Richie for somebody else.

He’s still looking, though. Maybe it’s the sweater; he accidentally shrunk it in the wash and now it’s a little too short in both the waist and the arms, and it’s kind of obvious. “You’re Richie?” the man asks.

Richie wishes he could say his self-control is responsible for not immediately panicking and wondering how the hell this guy knows his name – but his mouth responds before his brain can catch up and he says, “Yeah.”

The guy folds his paper, before giving Richie an unimpressed look. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a fucking idiot?”

Richie blinks. “All the time,” he freely admits. “Wait. Wait wait wait. _You’re_ the guy who told me I was gonna get murdered?”

“Yes,” the man evenly says.

“Are you gonna take me to a back alley and stab me to death now?”

“Why the fuck would I do that?” he says, and okay, sure, it would be really stupid to warn someone about murder before murdering them. But there are a lot of stupid people in this world. Richie would probably let himself get murdered if it meant he could have a decent meal beforehand, so he should probably count himself among the stupid people of America. Stupid, and hungry.

“Didn’t think you’d still be waiting,” he admits.

The guy checks his watch. “I have thirty more minutes. You weren’t exactly forthcoming about why you wanted to be a…” He trails off, clearly uncomfortable.

“Sugar baby?” Richie asks nonchalantly. No need to be coy about it. He knows why he’s here, this guy knows why he’s here; he doesn’t have to beat around the bush.

“So?” The guy motions with his hand. “Why do you?”

“I dunno, something tells me I should know your name before I share my sob story.”

“Eddie,” he says and raises his eyebrows, encouraging him to go on.

“It’s not that bad,” Richie starts. “I’m just your regular New Yorker who can’t afford rent, and who can’t find a job with his degree.”

“Get a roommate?” Eddie suggests, and Richie snorts.

“Try having three, bud. In a two bedroom.”

“Is that legal?”

“I have no fucking idea,” Richie says, “but I’ll take it over not having an apartment at all.” Eddie makes a noise of actual concern. “I’ll even take it over the last hovel I was staying in. I found a cockroach in the fridge once. It was _still alive_. In the fridge!”

Eddie outright gags. “That’s disgusting.”

“You’re telling me.” Richie makes a face at the bitter taste of the coffee when he takes a sip. “So, why’re you here, Eds?” Eddie mouths _Eds_ at him, and Richie grins. “You had to click on personals to even find my e-mail. D’you actually _want_ to be somebody’s sugar daddy?”

He lets his eyes roam downward. Admittedly, he doesn’t have a lot knowledge about clothing, but Eddie’s suit doesn’t look like it was taken off the rack somewhere. His watch looks expensive, and so do his shoes. Even his _tie_ looks expensive. He looks well-kept – a guy that’s usually so far out of Richie’s league, Richie wouldn’t even be worth the time to be looked at twice.

But Eddie’s looking at him now.

And he’s not even fifty, like Richie had expected!

Sure, Richie isn’t great at guessing people’s ages, but he knows this guy isn’t two decades older than him – though he’s definitely trying to be, according to the permanent frown line between his eyebrows. He’s not unattractive, either. Clean-shaven, with an angular face, and expressive eyebrows. Seriously, what is it with this guy’s eyebrows? They’re very… present in his face. As eyebrows are wont to do.

“This wasn’t my idea,” Eddie says, finally.

“So, what, this is a set up? A practical joke?”

“No. Fuck, no.” Eddie brings his hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t do things like this. Normally.”

“Is that why you told me I was gonna get murdered? I gotta say, dude, that’s not a great pick-up line.”

Eddie glares at him. “It wasn’t a pick-up line.”

“Usually pick-up lines aren’t in all caps,” Richie agrees. He takes another sip from his coffee. Not the best, but not the worst either. A solid mediocre. “But you wanted to meet, so.” He spreads his arms. “Here I am.”

Eddie gives him an appraising look, and Richie suddenly wishes he hadn’t worn the sweater that rides up to above his jeans and shows off his stomach. Or should he stretch his arms up and let his (hairy) stomach do the talking? Would a neat guy like Eddie be into hairy dudes?

The only thing Richie does know is that he _has_ to be into dudes, because he very explicitly mentioned in his ad that he, too, was a dude. And that he was looking for guys. Richie doesn’t spend a lot of time analyzing his thoughts, but he’s self-aware enough to know nobody would be getting anywhere if he said he was interested in women. No orgasms for me, and also not for thee.

Not to say he didn’t have a ton of issues actually bringing himself to post it, because that’s a whole other can of very big worms that he’s going to refuse to address until he absolutely has to.

“Sorry,” Eddie says, shaking his head. “Sorry, this was a mistake.” Richie blinks, and Eddie pulls out his wallet and puts a ten dollar bill on Richie’s table. “For the coffee.”

Richie opens his mouth. “But—that’s not—the coffee wasn’t _that_ expensive.”

“Do you want to give me back change?” Eddie asks, his eyebrows raising high on his forehead. He swings a scarf around his neck and shrugs on his coat. “Don’t e-mail me again.” He grabs his briefcase, and then he’s weaving his way out through the tables.

What the _fuck_ just—Richie grabs his coffee and slams it back, and sticks the bill into the back pocket of his jeans. Free money is free money. He haphazardly gets up, and bumps into multiple tables as he tries to put on his coat and walk out at the same time. “Oops, sorry,” he says to two ladies when he accidentally causes some of their drinks to spill.

He pulls the door of the coffee shop open, glances left, then right. “Eds! Hey, Eddie!” he yells after spotting him. He jogs after him, hoping it’s not some other guy with a fancy coat and short brown hair. “Wait!” The man pauses on the sidewalk, and almost visibly sighs, and by this time Richie’s caught up to him. To his faint surprise, he’s actually taller than Eddie, who glances up at him.

“Was there anything else you wanted?”

Richie wants a shit ton of things, including (but not limited to): an apartment he doesn’t have to share, a meal that doesn’t come out of a plastic cup, a new pair of shoes, a job that pays better than his current one, and the new XBOX 360. He bites his lip, and briefly glances at the sky, because this is fucking embarrassing, okay? “Look,” he says, “if you’re really not interested, I’ll leave you alone. But I’m—I’m kind of desperate here, dude. That roach I mentioned earlier, in my previous apartment? That was actually my current apartment. I’m pretty sure there’s black mold in the bathroom. I don’t even know what black mold is, but I know it’s bad, and I just—” He wipes his mouth with the palm of his hand. “I figured, what’ve I got to lose, you know? It’s fucking Craigslist, I knew there were gonna be weirdos. But you were the only one who actually responded. And, like I said, I’m—I’m pretty fucking desperate.”

Eddie purses his lips, but he doesn’t immediately tell Richie to fuck off, so—that’s a win, right?

“Please?” he adds, trying to look sad and like he really, absolutely, _desperately_ needs this. (Which he does. No getting around that.)

“Don’t—don’t do that,” Eddie says, sounding exasperated.

“Do what?”

“The face! It makes you look—stupid,” he finishes, although he doesn’t look too pleased by this conclusion. “Silly,” he adjusts, a second later.

“I’ll take it,” Richie says with a shrug. Eddie sighs, deeply.

“Okay. Okay, _fine_ ,” he finally says. “Give me a moment.” He pulls a fancy card holder out of his pocket. “Here’s my business card. Call only after eight, unless you want me to treat you – and charge you -- like a client.” He turns the card around and, after pulling a pen out of nowhere, writes a few numbers on the back. “Only call this number. It’s my personal.”

“Thanks,” Richie says. _Edward Kaspbrak. Risk Analysis_. The card says. He has no idea what risk analysing is or does, but it probably earns Mr. Kaspbrak quite a lot of money.

Eddie checks his watch. “I have to go. No calls before eight!” he reminds Richie, putting his little card holder back into the pocket of his suit.

“Yes, sir!” Richie calls after him – and laughs when Eddie flips him off without even looking back.

He looks down at the card again. Well then. That’s more than he expected to get. Seems like he’s got a guy to call, tonight.

Richie has an afternoon shift at the bar that day – which he usually hates, because the tips are much better at night – but today, he doesn’t give a shit. He gets home around seven after doing a grocery run and buying something _better_ than instant anything for a change. Frozen isn´t a big step up, but whatever. He pops it into the microwave, and changes his shirt because he smells like beer after getting a load tipped over him.

The shirt goes straight into the laundry (aka, the bedroom floor), and he puts on something more comfortable. In the kitchen, the microwave beeps, and he hurries back before one of his shitty roommates can steal it. If any of them are home, anyway, because he hasn’t heard a peep so far, from anyone.

Richie devours his cheesy chicken with rice (and a few bonus pieces of broccoli) in record time, sitting on the sofa while he has the tv on to some cartoon reruns. After that, he does the dishes (which include his plate, his fork – and that’s about it), takes a shower so he doesn’t smell like fucking beer anymore and then retreats to his room, because he doesn’t feel like hanging out with anyone.

He writes for a while, thinks about making a joke about being scouted as a sugar baby, of all things, but then decides it’s maybe a little too close to home to comfortably say that out loud to anybody. Richie makes a job out of making fun of himself, but he’s not a _complete_ masochist. At least not in real life. Richie on stage? Eh, who knows. He talks about himself, but they’re exaggerated stories, ones where he doesn’t namedrop, or he swaps a few genders. Besides, nobody who knows him actually goes to see him, so it’s easy to get away with.

He taps his pen against the notebook page for a solid five minutes before he even catches on he’s doing it, and then he checks his phone. 8.17. He could give the guy a call right now, right?

He turns the card over a few times between his fingers, before deciding _why the fuck not, what does he have to lose_?

The phone only rings a few times before Eddie picks up. “Edward Kaspbrak speaking.”

Richie smiles. “Edward! Such a pleasure to hear your voice again!”

There’s a momentary silence before Eddie asks. “Who is this?”

Richie snickers. “Eds, it’s me, Richie. From the coffeeshop.”

“It’s _Eddie_ ,” Eddie says, and Richie nods, as if Eddie can see him. “Yes. I remember you.” He pauses. “I didn’t know whether you’d actually call or not.”

“What part of ‘I’m desperate’ told you I wouldn’t?” Richie swivels around in his desk chair, and stares at the posters on his bedroom wall. Nothing like waking up to Arnie at seven in the morning, right?

“I’ve never done this before,” Eddie readily admits. Yeah, Richie had understood that. “I’ve got no expectations.”

“Neither do I.” Richie swivels back to the desk. “Aside from sweet, sweet cash, of course.”

To his surprise, Eddie laughs. “I guess if we want to do this, we’ll have to meet again. Set up an agreement. Isn’t that how this works?”

“You tell me.” Richie balances his pen between his lip and nose when Eddie starts to talk again.

“How about this: I’ll take you out for dinner, no strings attached, and we talk about what we want out of this arrangement. Does that work for you?”

“Uh, sure,” Richie says. “As long as I don’t have to work that night.”

“We’ll pick out a day and time that works for both of us,” Eddie says. “How about you text me your schedule, and I’ll send you the details when I’ve made a reservation. Is that alright with you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s cool. Sure.”

“Great. Oh, and maybe wear a shirt that actually fits next time?”

“I don’t think I own any,” Richie says.

“Figures,” Eddie says, but he sounds more amused than upset.

They hang up after that, and Richie spends some time thinking it over. He’d posted the Craigslist ad on a lark, after a co-worker had mentioned a friend of a friend (yeah, _sure_ ) doing the same, and raking in lots of money. And money is very appealing to Richie right now. On the other hand, he has no idea what Eddie Kaspbrak actually wants. His first impression was positive, but who knows what kind of freaky shit he might actually be interested in? He _probably_ doesn’t make lampshades out of people skin, or whatever, but isn’t that what you usually say about people who do make lampshades out of people skin?

It’s good that Eddie wants to meet him at a restaurant, because if that weren’t the case, it’s likely he would’ve chickened out, money or not.

He sends Eddie the remainder of his schedule for the week, and within fifteen minutes, Eddie has invited him to a dinner on Thursday to an upscale restaurant that Richie never would’ve gone into by himself.

He texts Eddie: _do i need to wear a tie_

Eddie sends back: _No, you don’t._

Richie says: _well, good, because the only tie i own is christmas themed and has reindeer on it_

He snorts when Eddie sends back, _Please don’t ever wear anything like that ever again_.

_you haven’t even seen my ugly christmas sweater collection yet!_ Richie texts, somewhat gleefully.

Eddie says: _I hope I never have to_.

*

The thing is, Richie doesn’t exactly have a lot of time to date. Although ‘date’ is a bit of an exaggeration. It’s more ‘Richie doesn’t have a lot of time to hook up’. Get down and dirty. The last time anybody (or anything) touched his dick other than his own hand was six months ago, in a gross bathroom stall in a bar where nobody asked questions.

Richie’s never actually _told_ anybody he’s gay. He knows he is; he doesn’t sleep with women, even if he gives off the impression he does. His roommates (hopefully) assume he’s drowning in pussy. Which is fine with Richie, because he’s not ready for the ‘I’m glad you were able to tell me’ conversation, with anyone. And that’s mostly because he’s not able to tell anybody – which is ironic, considering he’s about to meet a guy in an hour and a half for a date.

Maybe Eddie will think he’s gay for pay, Richie considers, putting on the only pair of jeans without holes in them that he owns. There aren’t all that many women (sugar mommies? Is that what they’re called?) who do this after all.

Richie knows he asked for men in his ad, but that was anonymous. He could do that without anybody ever finding out that was him. Well, up until the point he decided to throw caution into the wind and met Eddie, at least. He could still back out. The thing is, does he really want to?

A guy like Eddie wouldn’t just out him, right? It’d mean admitting how he and Richie know each other, outing himself. Unless Eddie’s out himself. He hadn’t been wearing a ring at the coffee shop, but he could’ve taken it off. Richie’s impulsive, but he’s not naïve. Eddie could find someone – a boyfriend, girlfriend, whatever – easily. He’s good-looking enough. Plus, if he’s got the money to throw around on something like a _sugar baby_ , people ought to be lining up for him. So why this?

Maybe if he’s ballsy enough, he’ll ask him tonight.

He picks out the nicest button-down he owns, because although Richie by no means owns any solid-colored shirts, he doesn’t actually want to be denied entrance because he’s too shabby looking. It’s also why he puts on the dress shoes that he hasn’t worn in years, instead of his well-worn sneakers. He doesn’t think it’s a bad thing he’s dressing to impress. He’s trying to get Eddie to give him money because he likes him, not because he pities him.

Richie’s out the door way too early, because he doesn’t want to be late like last time.

And he’s not! He’s actually fifteen minutes early, amazingly. He wonders if he should wait out here for Eddie, or go inside and wait there. When he peers into the restaurant, he realizes he’s _still_ underdressed. The last time he went to a place this fancy, he’d just graduated from his Master’s program and his parents took him out for dinner. He has no idea where those clothes went – maybe they’re at his parents’ place?

When it’s five minutes to their agreed time, he goes inside, hoping he won’t immediately be pointed the door again. To his credit, the host’s face doesn’t even twitch when he asks, “Do you have a reservation, sir?”

“Yes,” Richie says, looking across his shoulder to see if Eddie has shown up yet. He hasn’t.

“Under what name?”

Richie is about to say Tozier when he realizes that, obviously, Eddie would use his own name to make the reservation. “Uh,” he says. If there’s a bad time to not remember Eddie’s last name, it’s now. He doesn’t have his business card on him, so he can’t even check. Eddie’s name in his phone is just Eddie, no last name. The host almost imperceptibly raises his eyebrows at him.

“If you would—”

“He’s with me.” Richie almost jerks away when Eddie’s hand lands on the small of his back, and Eddie smiles up at him, before turning to the host. “Reservation should be under Kaspbrak.”

“Yes, I see,” the host says, after checking his reservation list. “If you’d follow me, gentlemen?”

Eddie’s hand remains on his back until they’ve reached a fairly secluded table in the back of the restaurant. Richie sits before Eddie can go as far as pull out his chair for him (if he’s the kind of guy to do that, which he could be). The host bids them a good night, and a tall woman with her hair twisted into a tight bun at the nape of her neck approaches them.

“My name is Sarah, I’ll be your waitress for tonight,” she says. She hands them their menus. “What would you like to drink, and can I interest you in the wine list?” Eddie nods.

“Yes. We’ll also take a pitcher of water. Is there anything you’d like to drink?” It takes Richie a moment to realise Eddie’s talking to _him_.

“Um,” he says. Eddie smiles at the waitress.

“If we could have a moment?”

“Of course. I’ll be back shortly.”

Richie stares after the waitress, before focusing on Eddie. “How often do you do this?”

“Often enough,” Eddie says. “But not like this. Usually they’re mandatory lunches and dinners for work.”

“Not dates,” Richie says.

“Definitely not.” He looks up and thanks the waitress for bringing their waters and the wine card. “Do you know what you want to drink?”

“If you have anything on tap, I’ll take it,” he says, and she makes a note of it.

“If you have any questions about the menu, please feel free to ask,” she says, moving onto another table. Richie flips the menu open, and stares.

“Don’t look at the prices.” Richie glances up. “I told you it’d be my treat, right?”

“Right,” Richie says. But when he looks at some of these prices, they’re more expensive than what he’d spend on dinner in a month. Two months! “So how often do you go out for dinners like this? You can’t say never.”

“I don’t by myself,” Eddie says. “I like having someone to talk to, but I’m usually too busy to even consider asking anyone. I take it you don’t either?”

“Not really, unless McDonalds counts?”

Eddie makes a face at him. “That’s terrible food – if you can even call it that.”

Richie snorts. “If it goes into my mouth and it tastes good, I think it counts.”

“There’s too much fat in it,” Eddie says, “saturated fats, trans fats – you could get diabetes, or heart disease, or—”

“I get it, I get it,” Richie says. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t go at all these days – because I can’t afford it, not because I don’t want to.”

“Oh,” Eddie says. He looks a little embarrassed when Richie looks up from the menu again. “That’s not a—I have some issues, with food.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Richie drily says.

“Can you even see anything? Here, let me—” Before Richie knows it, Eddie has leaned in closer and plucked his glasses off his nose. Richie _thinks_ he’s cleaning them, but Eddie isn’t exactly available in high definition right now. “I don’t understand how you can stand the fingerprints.” The Eddie blur holds the glasses up, and then goes back to rubbing them clean.

“You stop seeing them after a while,” Richie says. “I kinda need those to see, though.”

“Right.” Eddie carefully puts his glasses back on, and Richie adjusts them to a more comfortable position. “So is your eyesight really bad?”

“Pretty much,” Richie says. “I need these,” he taps his glasses, “otherwise I’m a hazard to myself _and_ other people.” Eddie winces.

“That bad?”

“Yeah. I’ve had ‘em since I was a kid, though, so I’m used to it. I mean, it sucks that I can’t really see anything when I’m not wearing them. Everything’s blurry. How about you?”

“I have 20/20 vision,” Eddie says, and Richie whistles.

“Damn. Lucky you.”

“I mean, that does make me more predisposed to get glaucoma, but. Yeah.” Eddie focuses on his menu again, and so does Richie, until the waitress stops by again.

“Have you been able to make a decision?”

“Yes,” Eddie says, glancing up at Richie. “Have you?” Richie nods. He’s not a very picky eater, and almost everything on the menu looks good, so he’ll just take the first thing he’s feeling like eating today. “Alright, for the starter I’d like the citrus salad, with a Riesling to accompany it. But no croutons, I can’t eat gluten. And for the main I’d like the duck, with a Pinot Noir.” He closes his menu.

“Excellent choice, sir,” she says, turning to Richie. She’s not writing it down, so Richie hopes she’s good at remembering all this. “And for you, sir?”

When was the last time someone called him that? He glances down at the menu again. “The, uh, asparagus, and then the lamb. Please.”

“Another great choice,” she compliments, taking their menus from them. “I’ll be back with your drinks shortly.”

He doesn’t have a menu to hide behind now, and Richie shifts a little in his seat. He feels out of place here, like he doesn’t belong – but then he feels like that in loads of places, a fancy restaurant isn’t exactly the exception to the rule.

He might as well cut to the chase. “What do you want from me?” Richie bluntly asks. He’s gotta know. He _has_ to know. He doesn’t want to be wined and dined and then be left high and dry. Even if the wining and dining is great.

Eddie’s eyebrows lower a little as he thinks.

Richie watches his face, the little furrow between his brows that will only get deeper as he ages. Eddie looks like the kind of guy that frowns a lot. He has one of those faces that just emanate ‘I am very disappointed in you’. At least, it has the potential to. Richie wonders what kind of boss he is – because he doesn’t look the guy who follows orders, he’s the one doling them out. He has to be, if he’s taking Richie to a place like this.

“I think I’ve been pretty honest about what I want,” Richie says, when Eddie doesn’t come with an immediate response. “You know what I want. And you still asked me to come to dinner with you.” He shrugs a little. “So, either you’re okay with that, because I’m sitting here, or I’m wasting my time.”

“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

“I figure it’s better to be upfront. Don’t want to give you the wrong idea.” He winks, and Eddie snorts.

“Which would be what?” Eddie asks. “You were pretty clear about what you wanted in your ad,” he says. “I wouldn’t—” He clears his throat, and he’s getting a little red just above the collar of his shirt. “I wouldn’t have responded if I wasn’t… _interested_.”

Richie leans back in his chair. He wasn’t explicit in his ad that he was willing to suck a dick, but it was more or less implied that he wouldn’t be opposed to it, or any other sexual exploits, and Eddie wouldn’t be blushing right now if that isn’t where his thought process has gone.

“Alright then, Mr. Interested,” he says, watching Eddie’s ears slowly turn red. “What do you do for fun?”

“What do I—what?”

“I mean, you’re not too busy for hobbies, right? Unless your hobbies are scrolling down craigslist and warning every hapless young entrepreneur that they’re about to kick the bucket.”

“That’s not—” Eddie’s cut off by the arrival of the first course. “Thank you,” Eddie says, the waitress telling them to let her know if they need anything. The asparagus looks like asparagus. Richie isn’t sure what else he was expecting. “That’s not what I usually do,” Eddie continues, as if they weren’t just interrupted.

“So you jack off to them instead?” Richie puts some asparagus in his mouth, and Eddie gapes at him, his fork halfway to his mouth, food hovering in front of him. “I mean, sometimes they include pictures.” Richie had scrolled through a fair few before deciding on what to write down, just so he wouldn’t immediately put off the majority of the people who might be interested. Like he’s doing right now.

“That’s disgusting,” Eddie says.

“I know!”

“What I’m trying to say,” Eddie says, attempting to sound patient but failing miserably, “is that I don’t do this. At all.”

“Oooh. Well, why didn’t you just say so!”

“I did. Multiple times. Weren’t you listening?”

“I am, I’m just easily distracted.” Richie grins winningly (well, he hopes he is). Eddie sighs, and gets back to picking at his salad. Does he even like it? “Sorry, sorry,” he adds, and Eddie raises a brow.

“I didn’t want to do this,” Eddie says, gesturing between them with his fork. “I didn’t think it was a good idea. I mean, you never know who you’re gonna meet, and what they’re like, whether you’ll get along or not, and that’s not even mentioning STDs, or—”

“I’m in the exact same boat, you know,” Richie says. “I mean, you were right – I could’ve met somebody who just wanted to use me for my body, and then murder and dump me in the Hudson.” He pauses, maybe slightly too long just to be dramatic. “Instead, I got you.”

“You think I wouldn’t dump you in the Hudson?”

“Well, now I’m worried,” Richie says. Eddie’s eyebrows do this weird complicated thing that conveys something like, ‘You weren’t worried before?!’ “Nah, I don’t think you will,” he says. “For one thing, you’d have to carry this body all the way over there, and I just don’t think that’s worth the effort.”

Eddie nods along. “There’s a dumpster right around the corner,” he says, and Richie nearly chokes on his next bite of asparagus. It’s Eddie’s turn to smile at him.

“You, uh,” Richie wipes his mouth, “seem like the kind of guy who cleans up after himself. I don’t think a dumpster would really fit your style.”

“You’re right,” Eddie gravely says, “it doesn’t. But then neither does the Hudson.”

“Would you cut me up into little pieces and spread me around the city?” Eddie makes a face. “That’d be very romantic.”

“That would pollute the environment,” Eddie says. “And it’d be traumatizing to whoever found your body parts.”

“That’s not an argument against my murder, though,” Richie says, and Eddie sighs. “Sorry, man, I swear I’m not making fun of you. But I did laugh when I opened your first e-mail. I thought I was gonna get an offer for like, ten inches, or something, not a warning about meeting strangers from the internet”

“You wouldn’t be the first person to get killed over something like this,” Eddie says. “There are tons of stories out there.”

“And I bet the majority of them are made up,” Richie says, finishing up his food. “You should use Snopes. Y’know, to fact check.” Eddie wrinkles his nose. “C’mon! Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Snopes!”

“Of course I have. But you can’t believe everything online, nobody checks stuff, anyone can say anything.”

“Not on Snopes,” Richie smugly says. “It’s not Wikipedia.”

Eddie shrugs, but that’s alright. Richie isn’t here to convince him the internet can actually be used for good stuff. They finish the first course, and Richie gets asked if he wants another beer, which he does. Their plates are taken away, Eddie finishes his glass of wine, and they give each other not-too-thinly veiled looks right across the table. They’re still in public, after all.

He’s starting to think he likes Eddie, which is a good thing in case he wants to drop his pants for him later. Eddie is surprisingly interested, asking what he does for a job (bartends most nights), what he majored in (Philosophy – yeah, he knows), if he’s been in New York long (ever since he graduated and moved from Boston), where he’s from, originally (Maine – and what a coincidence, so is Eddie!). They shit talk their hometowns for a bit (“I want to be able to dry my laundry without the neighbor across the street judging my socks, thanks” – “Can you believe we did not have McDonalds in our town until I was like, sixteen? Because we didn’t!”) before moving on to better topics.

Eddie’s holding his wine glass, the majority of it gone, his plate empty, while Richie is at the tail end of a story about how he once got stuck in a gas station bathroom for three hours until someone finally heard him (or took pity on him). “My roommate, Sharon, she says I’m the unluckiest bastard she’s ever had the pleasure of meeting. Which is probably true, considering that I attract problems so quickly I can even pick and choose which ones to deal with first.”

“And sometimes you invite them in yourself,” Eddie says, the corner of his mouth tilting up.

“I mean, you’ve heard me talking. Obviously.”

“You’ve got a mouth on you,” Eddie agrees.

“That I do.” Richie smirks. “It’s good for more than just verbal diarrhea.”

“Please never say that again.” Eddie looks physically pained, and for a second Richie thinks he’s gone too far, until Eddie adds, “I don’t want to think about _diarrhea_ when I’m _eating_.”

It’s not until the waitress comes back with dessert menus that they get a little more serious.

“Could we share the pineapple cheesecake?” Eddie suggests. “If that’s alright with you?”

“Sounds good to me,” Richie says. It’s been a while since he’s eaten this much _good_ food, because Eddie had the decency to pick a restaurant where the portions weren’t stupidly small. He has a little room leftover for dessert, though. As he should. They hand their menus back, and Eddie moves a little closer, now that the table has been emptied.

“I brought you something,” he says. “I wasn’t sure when to give it to you, when it’d be appropriate, _if_ it’d be appropriate, but I wanted to do something anyway, considering I’m taking up your time and I—” He flushes a little. “Well, I’m sure you have other, better things to do.”

“Dude, are you kidding? You’re spending a shit ton of money on dinner. You don’t have to _give_ me anything.” He’s not about to decline, though, and wonders what it is. Would it be too outrageous to wonder if it’s something like a speedboat?

“I know,” Eddie says, pulling his jacket open and taking out an envelope he had tucked away in an inner pocket. “I wanted to, though. As a token of my appreciation.”

“As a token of your—” Richie glances into the envelope. “Holy shit.” He’s pretty sure _he’s_ the one blushing now. When he looks back up after stowing the envelope away on his person, Eddie is smiling at him. He’s doing that a lot, tonight, and if Richie weren’t sure he was such an annoying person in, well, in person, he’d almost believe Eddie actually liked him.

“I take it that was enough?” he asks.

“It was—it was fine,” Richie manages, barely stumbling through a thank you when the waitress brings their dessert with two spoons.

The pineapple cheesecake is delicious, but not as delicious as watching Eddie’s lips wrap around the spoon, savoring every bite. Richie kind of wants to kiss him. He’s tried not to think about it the whole night, but it’s hard not to when Eddie keeps giving him these _looks_.

He’s always suppressed wants like that, because he shouldn’t want to kiss men, he knows what comes of it, but he’s only human. And Eddie looks like he wouldn’t mind, if Richie were to scoot closer, touch him, bring their faces closer together… He banishes the thought from his mind. Even if Eddie wouldn’t mind, they’re in public, and Richie—he can’t—

“I’d like to do this again,” Eddie says, sliding the plate into Richie’s direction when there’s just one bite left. “Would you?”

“If the food is always this good,” Richie says. Eddie laughs. “I’m serious, buddy. This is like, orgasm on a plate.”

“Orgasm on a plate, huh?” Eddie muses. “Would you also be interested in orgasms in other locations?”

If Richie hadn’t already swallowed the cheesecake, he would’ve choked on it. In a very non-sexy way. Eddie looks smug. Of course he does.

“Maybe?” he says. Okay, so, he _had_ anticipated this might happen (he left the underwear with the cartoon pineapples in his underwear drawer for a reason), but when Eddie says it so blatantly, it’s—

“If this is about money, we can talk about that,” Eddie says. “I’d be happy to pay you.”

“For—for sex,” Richie stammers.

“For your company,” Eddie says. Right. Keeping it classy. “If that’s something you want, too.”

“I—yeah.” If they’d met in the real world, Richie would’ve been lucky to find a guy like Eddie, who looks like he fucking manscapes. And he wants Richie, for some strange reason Richie can’t fathom yet. Or someone like Richie, at the very least. “Okay. Sure.”

“That sounded convincing.” Eddie flags down the waitress. “You can think about it. No need to decide right away.”

They’re brought the bill, and Richie watches as Eddie takes out his credit card, and slips it inside. He signs his name, and they’re wished a pleasant evening, first by their waitress, and then by the host once they’re back by the entrance. Eddie briefly puts his hand on the small of his back again, but Richie takes a step aside, because it’s different—it was private, inside, but not out there.

He liked it, though, and he wishes he could let Eddie touch him.

“I had a good time tonight,” Eddie says, once they’re outside.

“Me too,” Richie says. “Thanks. For taking me out.”

“You’re welcome. Let me call you a cab to take you home, alright? I’ll call you next week, so we can schedule another date.”

“Yeah, sure,” Richie says. They’ve wandered to the side of the restaurant, so they’re not blocking the entrance, and Eddie takes out his phone.

“Somewhere else,” Eddie is saying, but Richie isn’t really paying attention anymore. He can’t stop staring at Eddie’s mouth, not even if he wanted to. He could just-- “Do you like Italian?”

“Uh,” Richie says intelligently.

“I also know a good Greek place. Or would you prefer something else? Richie?”

Eddie gives him a curious look, and he has to tilt his head up just so, so Richie really can’t help himself when he blurts out, “Can I suck your dick?”

To his credit, Eddie doesn’t act scandalized by Richie’s proposition. “Is that what you want?” he asks, instead. His eyebrows are leading a life of their own on his forehead, like they’re particularly bushy caterpillars trying to sway Richie into saying yes. Although it’s not like he needs any convincing; if they weren’t standing right by the road, where anyone could see them, Richie could drop to his knees right this second.

But Richie’s still too afraid of being seen.

The cab Eddie called pulls up by the curb, and Eddie asks, “Would you be willing to come with me?”

“Definitely,” Richie says. He’d probably follow Eddie to the Hudson river if it meant he could get his mouth on him. Eddie tells the cab driver an address, and then he’s back beside Richie.

Richie stares at the hand placed carelessly on his knee, Eddie’s fingertips touching the inseam of his pants, but not anywhere close to inappropriate. He kind of wants him to move his hand, though, to draw it closer to Richie’s crotch while he talks about their dinner.

Richie isn’t anywhere near brave enough to put his hands on Eddie, even if they’re in the back of the cab and it’s unlikely for the driver to see anything in the dark. Richie still feels watched.

The drive takes only fifteen minutes, but by the time they’ve stopped, Eddie’s hand feels like a hot vice on his leg, and Richie has to swallow heavily before he can answer Eddie’s question whether he’s ready. Because he is. He’s very fucking ready. Maybe he just needs a minute or two to, y’know, get acclimatized.

They’ve stopped at a hotel, to Richie’s surprise. He’s not sure where he expected they were going, but now that he thinks about it, why the hell would Eddie take him to his own place? Richie definitely would not invite him over, because first of all: dirty laundry on the floor. Secondly: the roommates. _Especially_ the roommate he’s sharing a bedroom with. And third… does he even need a third? Two ought to be enough.

Eddie takes care of the whole getting a hotel room business, talking to the woman behind the reception, and Richie stares at an abstract painting that he _thinks_ is a building, but if he tilts his head it looks like a penis. But then again, lots of abstract paintings look like penises, so that’s nothing new.

Maybe it’s because he’s a man and has an intrinsic need to see phallic shapes in everything. Who the fuck knows.

“Are you coming?” Eddie brings him out of his reverie, and he follows him to the elevator.

“So…” Richie starts after the elevator doors have closed. Why the hell do they have elevator music? “You do this often?”

Eddie laughs. “Do I give the impression that I do?”

“You knew the hotel address from memory,” he points out. Eddie shrugs.

“I know places in the city for client references,” he says. The doors slide open on the fourteenth floor, and Eddie lets Richie out first, because he’s _still_ a gentleman. Be still, my beating heart, Richie tells himself. For real, though, because he doesn’t want Eddie to be able to hear he’s about to have a heart attack or two.

Eddie opens their door with a keycard, holds the door open – and then they’re alone.

It’s a nice hotel room. Richie can feel himself being all jittery, so he tries to focus on anything _not_ Eddie because if he does, he’s certain he’ll blush, and if he blushes, he’ll start stammering, and if he does that—well, who knows what would happen next? Some dick sucking?

Richie almost swallows his own tongue, and Eddie gives him a concerned look when he coughs.

“We don’t have to do this,” he says, sitting down on the bed, hands spread out beside him.

“I want to,” Richie says, more hurriedly than he intends. Eddie motions him closer, and when he’s standing close enough to touch, he takes Richie’s hand in his own, his thumb brushing softly over the tops of Richie’s knuckles. Richie’s stomach does a weak little flop behind his ribs.

“It’s not a requirement,” Eddie says, looking up at him, his brow stern. “You don’t have to touch me.”

“I know,” Richie says. “But it wouldn’t be a punishment. Have you looked at yourself? You’re…” He gestures with his free hand. “You’re hot,” he ends up with, because most of the blood in his body is not in his brain at the moment.

“Thank you,” Eddie says, and Richie laughs.

“Are you gonna thank me every time I compliment you?”

“Maybe. You could find out.”

“Oh, God.” Richie groans, and he feels Eddie tug at his hand. “What? Do you want—” He looks at the floor. “On my knees?”

“Please,” Eddie says, and he’s smirking only a little bit, so Richie lets himself be guided down until he’s settled between Eddie’s knees. “Want to leave these on?” Eddie asks, lightly touching his glasses.

“Yeah. I wanna see you.”

“You do, don’t you?”

Richie looks up at him, now – a strange sensation for a guy who’s used to needing to look down. Eddie touches his cheek, and then runs his thumb along the path of his cheekbone. “Do you want to put your mouth on me, Richie?”

“Yeah.” His voice ends up far huskier than he expected, and Eddie smiles at him, running that same thumb along his lips, Richie unwittingly opening his mouth, Eddie’s thumb sliding right in to press at the top of his tongue. It’s slightly salty to the taste, but soft otherwise, and it’s not an unpleasant feeling.

“You’re very handsome,” Eddie tells him, and Richie feels himself flush and swallows around Eddie’s thumb, his other fingers gently cupping his jaw. “Has no one ever told you that?” Richie only has to shake his head once, his motion limited while his face is being held. It’s a little weird, not being able to respond, but it’s like—it’s like Eddie is seeing him, regardless. He doesn’t look at him, he _looks_ at him, and it’s like he sees through Richie’s skin, through muscle and nerves and sinew, into his skull, into his head, into his soul – and he likes what he finds there.

“Shame on them,” Eddie says, releasing Richie’s mouth, dragging his thumb across his bottom lip so saliva drips down Richie’s chin, onto the soft carpet underneath his knees.

Richie can feel himself getting hard against the zipper of his jeans, a dull but pleasant throb. He can’t look away from Eddie, looking down at him. Eddie swipes away some of the saliva with his thumb. “You’re good?” he asks, and Richie nods.

“Good as it gets,” he says, and then eyes Eddie’s crotch, conveniently placed right by his face. Eddie’s hard, like him, and Richie wants to unwrap him like he’s a Christmas present – but one only for ages eighteen and up. He puts his hands on Eddie’s thighs, to balance himself, and he wants to touch him, mouth at him straight through the fabric of his expensive slacks, drool all over him so he’s got no choice but to go to the dry cleaners.

Richie glances up, his fingers twitching, but he doesn’t want to ask for permission. He already knows Eddie wants it, he just doesn’t know how he wants it. Slow, fast, deep, with lots of tongue, or barely enough teeth. Eddie reaches up with his free hand and undoes his belt, then the top button of his pants. Richie involuntarily tightens his hold on Eddie’s legs, because he’d love to hold him open like this, just waiting for Richie dive in, his thighs closing around Richie’s face.

But Eddie’ll have to do some of the work himself, even if Richie can’t wait to have him moan his name, he’s still—

Eddie pulls down the zipper, and Richie licks his lips, suddenly aware of how dry his mouth has gotten. Eddie’s underwear is a sensible black – although it’s not very sensible when you think about what kind stains could be left on that. And he is. Leaving a stain, that is.

There’s a darker patch on the dark fabric, and Richie darts his head forward, opening his mouth and pressing his tongue against the swollen bulge still carefully tucked away. “Oh, fuck,” Eddie says, and Richie can feel the drift of his hand as he spreads his fingers across the back of Richie’s head.

Richie has sucked a few dicks before, so it’s not like any of this is new, but he’s never done it in a fancy hotel room with a guy whose clothes are probably worth more than Richie’s monthly rent. He presses his hands up higher, to the junction where Eddie’s hips meet his legs, and he lets his hands wander, under Eddie’s shirt, underneath the waistband of his pants, and sucks right at the fabric. “Jesus fuck,” Eddie says, “c’mon, get your—” He nudges Richie away, just so he can reach into his briefs and pull out his cock.

It’s hard and red and wanting, leaking alongside Eddie’s thumb as he casually strokes himself, and Richie swallows. “So, when’s the last time you had your dick sucked?” he asks, conversationally, not even looking at Eddie’s face anymore.

“Never,” Eddie says.

“Wait, really?”

“And it’s never gonna happen if you don’t—” _get a move on_ , Richie finishes in his head. He swats Eddie’s hand away from himself.

“Stop doing that, unless you wanna come on my face. Or do you wanna do that?”

Eddie considers it. “Not now,” he decides on, and Richie focuses back on his cock, already wet. He doesn’t hesitate any further and takes the head into his mouth, moving his tongue across the underside of it, and dragging his lips back until he almost pops off.

Eddie has a nice dick, resting hot and hard on his tongue, and Richie imagines it pulsating at the same strength as his own dick, now painfully hard between his legs, but he doesn’t dare reach out and touch himself. Not when he wants to put all of his attention on Eddie.

Eddie’s hand is back on his head, brushing through his hair, but keeping a firm hold on him at the same time, and he _is_ moaning. When Richie glances up, Eddie’s throat is exposed, and Richie watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows through Richie’s name once, twice, three times.

If he’s never had a blowjob, Richie wants to make it good for him, and he opens his mouth a little wider, relaxes his jaw, and sinks down further until his nose is tickled by the hem of Eddie’s shirt.

Eddie swears again, and Richie slides back, licking the tip as he lets go. “ _Fuck_ ,” Eddie says, “what the fuck, dude.”

“I’m sucking you off, and you’re calling me dude,” Richie says. Eddie laughs, breathlessly.

“Fuck you, man.”

“Some other time?” Richie suggests, wiggling his eyebrows, before diving back in, enjoying the way Eddie’s hand tightens in his hair, pulling him closer. His dick tastes salty, like his thumb had, like the remnants of sweat, of a body being lived in, and Richie happily swallows him down, tongue lapping up pre-cum, coating him in his own saliva.

He almost takes in Eddie’s cock too deep when he feels pressure against his crotch, and he looks down, nearly pulling off Eddie – who’s rubbing against him with a sock-clad foot. “You like that?” Eddie asks. “You want me to touch you?” Richie weakly thrusts his hips forward within the amount of space he has, and when he looks at Eddie’s face, his cheeks are pink, and he’s panting a little.

He enthusiastically goes back to the job at hand, feeling Eddie’s foot turn so his heel is pressed to the front of Richie’s jeans, and his foot curls around him, alleviating some of the pressure that’s been building up since they stepped foot in the room.

A dribble of spit drips from Richie’s lips as he works his tongue along the vein stretching from the head of Eddie’s cock to the base, and he can feel the coil in his own belly tightening, and he sucks down, hard.

“Motherfu—” Eddie cuts himself off, his free hand landing hard on Richie’s shoulder as he comes, and Richie both hears and feels him breathing heavily, his stomach expanding up close. “Jesus Christ,” Eddie says after a moment, and Richie pulls off of him, a string of drool still connecting them until it snaps, and Richie wipes his chin with the back of his hand.

“Have you—don’t this before?” Eddie asks, looking slightly embarrassed.

“A few times. Why, could you tell?”

“Never mind.” Eddie sighs. “Do you need me to…?” He trails off.

“What? No. No, you don’t have to.”

“Are you sure?” Eddie’s frowning, now, and he tucks himself away, but not before making a face at all the fluids. “That can’t be comfortable.”

“It’s not that.” Richie blushes. “I, uh. I already came.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“That fast?”

“Unfortunately.”

Eddie gives his pants a distasteful look, and then, to Richie’s surprise, he begins to shuck them off, rather than button up again. “Wait, what are we—is this--?”

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Eddie says. “Alone,” he adds, after Richie expectantly raises his eyebrows. “You’re welcome to stay. Or you can go, if you want.”

Richie glances at the bed. “You mean in there. With you.”

Eddie’s pants fall to the floor when he stands, and his legs are surprisingly toned. Richie wonders if he works out. He hangs them up neatly over a chair, making sure they’re folded over the crease, rather than the way Richie would leave them (you know, haphazardly).

“Unless you wanted to sleep on the floor?” Eddie starts to unbutton his shirt, and Richie can’t tear his eyes away. He literally just had his mouth on him, but he can’t help it, there’s just something about Eddie that draws Richie to him – and it’s not just that he’s getting naked right in front of him. “I can call a cab for you,” Eddie says, “if you’d prefer to go home. That’s fine.”

“You’re staying?”

“I paid for the night.” Eddie takes his shirt off. Richie stares at his abs. And his arms. And his chest. “You’ll be here when I’m done?”

“Yeah,” Richie says as he sits down on the bed. He’s still wearing his clothes, including the boxers he came into not even five minutes ago. Ugh. That means going commando tomorrow. Eddie disappears into the bathroom, and Richie strips out of his clothes when the shower turns on. He crawls onto the bed, and stares at the ceiling. This has been the weirdest week of his life. By far.

Okay, so maybe not as weird as that time Sharon the roommate brought home a stray animal and insisted it was a cat (it was not), and it wrecked half their apartment – but it’s up there. Richie idly scratches his stomach. Eddie’s taking his time in the shower, apparently, and Richie lets his mind wander a little, wonder what it’d be like to open the door and look at him. To watch rivulets of water slide down his back, along the line of his spine, over the curve of his ass. Would he like it, Richie wonders, to be watched? Would he like it if Richie was the one doing the admiring? Because he knows there’s plenty to be admired.

He yawns, and presses the flat of his hand to his mouth. After a few more minutes, the shower turns off, and Richie’s turned onto his side, looking at the soft billowing curtains in front of the window, the lights darting across the walls.

The bathroom door opens. “You’re still here.” Eddie sounds vaguely surprised, as if he wasn’t expecting that, as if Richie hadn’t just told him he’d stay right here.

“I said I would be.” And Richie can’t exactly decline a night of sleep on a mattress a million times better than his own. He bets he could sell this pillow for a hundred bucks, while knowing it’s been slept on by dozens if not hundreds of people.

Eddie’s only in his briefs, but he’s still just as nice to look at as before. When he pulls the towel away from his hair, it’s wild, but still dripping occasionally into his neck, water sliding down his chest. “You’re staying until tomorrow?”

“You betcha.” Richie doesn’t hide his stare, but neither does Eddie, to the point where Richie almost feels like he needs to cover up.

“Good.” Eddie smiles again, and then drops onto the bed. “I liked it,” he then says, as if that hadn’t been obvious enough already. “Do you want to do this again?”

“Do I?” Richie says, mock exaggerated. “Uh, hell yeah? You can call me and I’ll come suck you off whenever you like.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, really. If I don’t have to work.”

Eddie rolls over, so he can whisper into Richie’s ear, “And if I paid you more?”

“I guess—I guess I could come over then.” He turns his head, and meets Eddie’s eyes.

“Sounds good to me,” Eddie says, and then he’s so close, Richie can count the light freckles dusting his nose, his eyelashes as his eyes fall shut, and then—then Eddie’s mouth covers his own, and Eddie sweetly kisses him, his hand back on Richie’s cheek.

Eddie sucks on his bottom lip (gently, though), and Richie opens his mouth. Eddie’s tongue slides in, and he moans freely. One of Eddie’s hands tightens in his hair, and Richie nearly tries to breathe him in, Eddie’s mouth soft against his own.

It’s over sooner than he expects, and Eddie rolls away, turning off the light on the nightstand.

“I’ll let a car bring you home tomorrow,” Eddie’s voice says in the dark.

“Yeah, sure,” Richie says.

“Goodnight, Richie,” Eddie says, and Richie can see the line of his body as he turns in bed, away from him.

“Night.”

Richie stares down at himself, and tries to will away his new boner.

**Author's Note:**

> I got a twitter! You can find me at [robin_inthewood](https://twitter.com/robin_inthewood).


End file.
